If You'd Come With Me, Mr Coulson (Pt 5 of Hawkeye and the Director)
by Two Ladies of Quality
Summary: Phil is no longer the Director of SHIELD. So why is the Ambassador of Wakanda interested in him?


No-Longer-Director Phil Coulson walked down the corridor to his Washington, D.C., hotel room, both delighted and depressed that the typical escort of guardian Agents was no longer with him. Simple Agents did not rate escorts, especially Agents with no clear position in the hierarchy at the moment. A Director Emeritus was embarrassing, and Phil knew he'd be shuffled off into allegedly important posts that had no real influence on how the new SHIELD-SHIELD 3.0?- would evolve.

He wondered if Nick would be disappointed in him.

But it made sense, to have someone enhanced in charge of the agency that was tasked with dealing with the Inhumans. The public needed to know that someone with those kind of powers was on their side. The President had looked so pleased with his new SHIELD Director, tall, broad, charming in an almost Captain America way. And with all his hair.

Phil very carefully did not slam his hotel room door behind him.

Ten minutes later, Phil had dispensed with tie and dress shoes, almost uncomfortable in the kind of suit that had been his chosen uniform and armor for so long. He'd gotten comfortable in the leather and heavy cloth he'd fought in these past few years. He still did cut a fine figure in finely tailored wool, though, and he'd caught a few admiring looks as he'd strolled through the ranks of so many new SHIELD agents.

So many new people. Who didn't know him, knew only second-hand rumors, hadn't lived through the days of secrecy and knife-edged chances and decisions based on blood and ratified with just a faint nod from Nick Fury. Phil had always prided himself on procedure and paperwork, but the new whispers of ramped-up security measures and bureaucracy irked him.

A firm triple-knock on the hotel room door startled him. He didn't recognize the knock; May's typical announcement was a light double-tap, half-meant to be unnoticed so she could slip into a room without the occupant knowing. He huffed and went to look through the peephole. This better not be some summons to official forced socialization.

He didn't recognize the man on the other side of the door, a man who gazed into the lens of the peephole calmly. His suit was not American, which marked him as not SHIELD.

"Good evening," Phil called through the door.

"Good evening, Director Coulson," the man called in return. Not a European accent, somewhere in West Africa.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but if you're looking for the director of anything, you've come to the wrong place." He was very proud of how little bitterness escaped.

"Former presidents are still called President, Director, I'm extending the courtesy."

"And to whom would I be extending the courtesy of addressing properly, if I knew how to address you?"

"I am N'Hem, a cultural attach from the Wakandan embassy."

Phil blinked for a few seconds then opened the door.

N'Hem nodded courteously. "Good evening, Director Coulson, thank you for seeing me."

"I've gotten used to being polite to diplomats, Mr. N'Hem. What can I do for you this evening?"

"I would like you to accompany me back to our embassy. Our ambassador has expressed an interest in speaking to you."

"As I said, I'm no longer the Director of SHIELD. I'm not authorized to participate in any diplomatic discussions at the moment."

N'Hem smiled slightly. "If the ambassador was interested in the Director of SHIELD, I would be standing in a different building. Her interest is in Agent Phil Coulson, regardless of what title he holds."

He knew very well that the new political order would frown on private dealings with embassies after hours. The new political order had never dealt with alien invasions and killer robots from other dimensions. "Let me get my shoes."

The car waiting for them did not have diplomatic markings, but the tall, silent woman who gave Phil a piercing stare matched the description of the legendary female royal guards of Wakanda. She didn't quite sniff disdainfully as Phil followed N'Hem into the back of the car, but Phil found himself missing Natasha horribly.

The trip to the Embassy was silent, N'Hem gazing out at the evening streetlife of the city and the woman sitting in front next to the driver, continually scanning the surroundings. Phil did his usual survey of the passenger section of a car, noting potential hidden compartments and confirming that there was a handle on the inside of the door and that the lock did not appear to be engaged. He hadn't had to leap out of a moving vehicle in months, but one never knew.

At the embassy, the car went to the side entrance, and the uniformed guard at the gate merely saluted as they drove in. Phil wondered again why the Ambassador wanted to see him. While he wasn't quite officially dead anymore-it was hard to be the Director of an intelligence service and meet with the President if you were a legal zombie-he wasn't a well-known figure outside of very select circles. Perhaps this was a quiet overture on the matter of Inhumans. Wakanda was long rumored to be home to . . . unique individuals. Though their recent foray into cultural openness had ended in tragedy, the political long view required they continue exploring international situations.

He was distracted from mulling over the pros and cons of the Sokovia Accords again by the car coming to a stop near a rear door of the Embassy. He paused before reaching for the door handle, and the woman in front leaped out and opened the door for him. It was always better to let others pretend to be courteous rather than discovering that one had been locked in with no way out.

N'Hem gestured to the door. "This way, Director."

Phil had been half-expecting to be guided in through the kitchens, but he was led through a pleasant enough side corridor into a wider, more elegant corridor, then to very classy wooden double doors. N'Hem opened one of the doors and gestured again. "If you would wait here, Director, the Ambassador won't be long."

"Thank you, N'Hem."

He walked into a well-appointed office and took note that the doors were not locked behind him. Slowly, he strolled around the room, noting exits, possible observation points, and potential weapons. There was a smaller door in another wall, but he didn't check to see if it was locked. The surface of the large desk was clear except for a finely carved desk set and a picture frame displaying a man, woman, and three children. He nudged one of the heavy chairs in front of the desk, testing it for ease of flinging.

On the wall across from the desk was a portrait of King T'Challa, looking young and solemn. Flanking the portrait were photographs of a city Phil didn't recognize, avant garde buildings against a heavily forested background, with smaller, rammed earth structures among them. One photograph showed a temple with a statue of a seated panther in front of it. In front of the statue, an actual panther lounged across the statue's feet.

Behind him, the double doors open. "This is a beautiful city, Your Excellency," Phil said, starting to turn. "This is in Wakanda?" He finished the turn and froze.

"Yes, it is," said the young man who was not quite as solemn as he appeared in his portrait.

Phil couldn't help glancing up at the official portrait, then back. "Forgive me, Your Majesty. Mr. N'Hem told me the Ambassador wanted to see me."

King T'Challa of Wakanda had a wry smile that said he enjoyed flustering people. "Madam T'Mero would like to meet you at some time, Director Coulson. She shares your interest in matters pertaining to Captain America. But N'Hem was acting on my orders. I pay him to tell lies for me."

Phil got his aplomb back under him. "Strictly speaking, sir, Mr. N'Hem never actually lied to me, which are the best lies to tell." He obeyed T'Challa's gesture towards the chairs in front of the desk, waiting till the king was seated before sitting himself. "I wasn't aware you were in the country, sir."

"No reason why you should," T'Challa shrugged. "I'm sure you have more important things to worry about than the movements of the head of state of a small African nation."

"Only small in land area, Your Majesty."

T'Challa nearly grinned. "I was told you had a way with words. In any case, Director, I had you brought here because I wanted to discuss the Avengers."

The memory of that footage from the airport still raked Phil's soul, the team ripped in two and battling itself, people who had stood back to back in hell turning on each other. Natasha and Clint on opposite sides. "I haven't had anything to do with the Avengers since New York, sir. They think I'm dead."

T'Challa leaned forward. "Why do you maintain that fiction? Anyone who has paid any serious attention to SHIELD in the last year knows about you."

"There aren't that many people who pay that kind of attention to an organization that has barely regained respectability. Aside from certain high officials, I've avoided exposure." Phil sighed. "My death was supposed to unite them. For as long as that lasted."

"Perhaps you could unite them again, by revealing yourself."

"I doubt I'm relevant to them anymore, especially in the face of what happened. Why are you concerned about the Avengers?"

T'Challa frowned. "I had no small hand in the events that tore them apart. I let rage and vengeance distract me."

"You were under severe provocation, as was most everyone, from what I heard."

T'Challa shook his head. "That is not a luxury afforded to kings. Not when it has such consequences. I need to make amends for my part in these events. The Avengers need to be healed."

"Half of them are international fugitives. Prison breaks don't normally endear people to the authorities." Phil blinked, suspicious of the twitch of a smile on the king's face. "I'm honestly surprised we haven't heard any word of where they are," he said carefully. "Captain Rogers is not a subtle man, someone would be bound to notice him."

"I was in Siberia," T'Challa said, gazing at the carpet. "I kept Zemo from killing himself, he told me he orchestrated everything to get revenge for Sokovia, to destroy the Avengers for them destroying his family. And by that time, he had succeeded. He had his vengeance, but it had given him nothing. I gave up my own desire for vengeance, because I knew I would gain nothing by destroying Bucky Barnes. Unfortunately, Zemo had done his work too well. Rogers would go to any length to protect Barnes, and Stark had horrible information sprung on him that he should have been told much sooner."

Phil closed his eyes. "It's true, then? Barnes killed Howard and Maria Stark?"

T'Challa sighed. "Yes, they were the Winter Soldier's mission. Stark was shown video of their deaths. Apparently Rogers had known for some time but hadn't said anything."

"Oh, poor Tony." Rumor had it that he and Pepper were having trouble, Rhodes had been crippled in Germany, and Jarvis had been destroyed by Ultron.

"He could use someone to talk to," T'Challa said pointedly.

Phil blinked and stared at him, then slumped. "I don't think odds are good of Tony Stark seeing my return after so long as being anything but another betrayal." T'Challa paused, then nodded sadly. "Can he talk to you? You're both powerful, both brilliant, both used to making decisions that are bound to annoy a lot of people."

T'Challa smiled ruefully. "Both dreadfully busy trying to manage situations that don't seem to have any good resolutions. I have sent him emails. He answers with obscene, clever non sequiturs. It is no wonder that his preferred weapon is armor."

Phil sighed. "I used to have a connection to Stark that I could have used, but he was on the other side in Germany and has no love for Tony any more. Even if I could find him." It had been months since he'd had any word of Clint. If someone had captured Hawkeye, there would have been a fuss, so he was still laying low. It wouldn't be the first time he'd gone hard to ground, and every rule of spycraft said you didn't poke your head up till you were sure you were safe.

T'Challa studied him for a few moments, then stood up. He waved Phil back into his chair. "Let me see where T'Mero is. She would like to meet a fellow admirer of Captain Rogers. She has a set of cards she shows off to anyone who isn't able to find business elsewhere quickly enough."

For all he wanted to maintain his dignity in front of the king of an important country, Phil couldn't help perking up. "I used to have a set of cards like that. Unfortunately they were used as part of a dramatic demonstration before the Battle of New York by Director Fury."

T'Challa blinked. "T'Mero would eviscerate me if I did anything like that."

"Well," Phil shrugged, "he only got away with it because I was dead at the time."

T'Challa smiled the way a young man should and went out the side door.

Once the door was closed, Phil got up to look at the photographs of the city again. After a moment, he realized he was looking for flying cars. It looked like the kind of place that should have them. The side door opened, and he turned. "It's an honor to meet you, Your Excellen-"

Once again, it wasn't the ambassador. Once again, he recognized the person.

The dark brown dye in the military-short hair and the Wakandan guard uniform would keep the average person from looking too closely, but no modifications on earth could keep Phil from recognizing those shoulders and those eyes and that crooked smile. "Oh, god," he whispered.

Clint closed and locked the door, then hesitated before turning back. "Hi," he said softly.

"You went to Wakanda?" Phil said, unable to think of anything more coherent. "Are you all there? Are you all right?"

"Obviously, it's not for me to say, and yes, I am."

He wanted to keep staring at the face he hadn't seen in too long, but his hands over-ruled him. He strode forward so he could grab Clint and drag him into his arms. Clint's own strong arms wrapped around him and held on tight. "How?" Phil gasped. "How are you here?"

"T'Challa and his Amazons like having a guard who can blend in in the paler parts of the world. He said there were good odds of getting a meeting with you on this trip and asked if I wanted to tag along."

Phil chuckled and squeezed, delighted to be able to feel Clint's voice rumbling against his chest again. "You're on first-name basis with a king."

Clint rubbed his nose against Phil's neck. "After the God of Thunder, what's a king? Besides, T'Challa doesn't have enough people to play pinochle with. Steve gets all sad and mopey when we don't get his old-fashioned trash talk-"

They both went still but didn't let go of each other.

"Why did you stop being director?" Clint whispered. "Fury gave that to you. He entrusted it to you, he knew you'd bring it back right. Why would you give that up?"

The Inhuman issue, as valid as it was, was really just the cover for what Phil wanted to do. "I couldn't be in command of an organization that had to officially renounce you. I cannot put my name or face or voice to any order that condemns an Avenger. I can't protect you while I'm director. I didn't realize that I can't ignore bad orders when I'm the one supposed to give the orders." He risked resting his head on Clint's shoulder. "I owe Nick an apology. He let me get away with so damned much."

Clint slid his hand up into Phil's hair. "Oh, sweetheart. SHIELD was your life, you were *excited* to have a chance to fix it."

"I don't want it to be my life if you're not there."

"God, Phil, no, you can't make me more important than saving the world."

Phil pulled back to stare at Clint's agonized face. "I've saved the world without being Director of SHIELD before, I can do it again. Especially if you're available somewhere." His patience snapped at the look of doubt and poor self-worth that was sneaking across Clint's face. "I killed a man I knew on another planet, but he followed me back through a wormhole, and we eventually had to blow him and a good man up in a space shuttle, and a woman I had high hopes for has gone superpowered vigilante, do not make my life more difficult, Clint."

He nearly laughed as Clint's face contorted with the effort of figuring that sentence out. "Have you been sleeping all right, sir?" Clint asked carefully.

The "sir" on the end of the question was probably automatic after all these years of Strike Team Delta being worried about each other. "No," Phil answered honestly. "Not without you."

Clint tried to cover the noise of pain with a laugh, and he hugged Phil. "Me neither. But at least I'm getting used to those god-damned jungle birds that like to scream outside my window. And I deserve a fucking medal for not pegging T'Challa's late father's pet monkey in the head with one of the nuts he throws at me."

"Are you allowed to tell me about that? Because I'd love to hear more."

"I can't tell you about any neighbors I may or may not have," Clint said carefully.

Phil squeezed him again, reveling in the feel of solid muscle. "I don't care about them. I want to hear about you. How long can you stay?"

"That's up to His Majesty. Who, I might add, was off to track down the Ambassador, who you will get a kick out of, and chatting with her will go a long way in convincing certain other factions that you can still be trusted."

Phil frowned. "Is something in the works?"

"More than likely, but I don't know what. But certain people may relax a little more if we know we have more resources than we thought we did." Clint reached over and unlocked the door. "Plus, T'Challa makes sure he always has the most amazing coffee wherever he is, you're going to love it."

Phil let out a happy sigh. "You and good coffee. The bedrock of what makes my life worth living."

"Just don't get jealous when the Ambassador gloats over having her collection of trading cards autographed." 


End file.
